


Tela Aurea

by my_lady_greensleeves



Series: Roving Tales [1]
Category: Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms, Rumpelstilzchen | Rumpelstiltskin (Fairy Tale)
Genre: Gen, ace/aro friendly, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:01:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29328969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_lady_greensleeves/pseuds/my_lady_greensleeves
Summary: She didn't even know how to spin. Not with wool, nor with linen, nor cotton. Certainly not straw.
Series: Roving Tales [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2154246
Kudos: 4





	Tela Aurea

It was to the smell of salt that he awoke, salt and mouldering hay and wet stone. He stretched his shoulders, the subtle popping noise echoing in the chamber he'd been summoned to. Shook his head to clear it. And saw before him a young woman, prostrate. Sobbing into her hands and the piles of fodder on the rough floor. _That cannot be comfortable._  
“Maiden, why do you weep these bitter tears?” Her eyes, red-rimmed, beheld him, and she startled at the sight.

She didn't even know how to spin. Not with wool, nor with linen, nor cotton. Certainly not straw. And because of that, because her father could not heal his wounded pride... she would die the next sunrise.

“The King,” she gasped. “The King of this land has set before me an impossible task. I will surely die come morning, for I cannot do as he asks.” He was not moved by her tears; had seen a thousand others like her, and turned away. He _wasn't_.  
“And what,” he coaxed, “does this king ask?” Something suitably ridiculous, no doubt.  
The question hung in the damp stone room, filled with straw. Hung in the air like the head of the weeping maiden on the floor.  
“He wishes me to spin straw into gold.” She sobbed the admission. Like it was certain. Like it was a death sentence.  
His lips twitched upward, almost a smile. “Something simple, then.” Her gaze met his, and he could've laughed aloud at the strength of her glare. There were daggers with softer edges.  
“If you've only come here to mock me, go away.” She had other, better things to do. Like cry. Rage. Like plan her escape.  
The fae man snorted. She had fire, this one. Even he could see it.  
Resigned to a night's work, he asked, “What do you have to give?” She pulled from her littlest finger a posie ring of hammered gold, set with ivory stone. Wordless and mute, she placed it in his palm.  
A flick of his hand, and the ring vanished from sight. “I accept.”

The ring was so little. She wouldn't miss it, whether she died tomorrow or not. Whether he fulfilled his promise or not. Dawn would tell. She slept, exhausted by the day's turn of events. Slept, and dreamed of the roaring, screaming echo of a waterfall.

It was to the creaking sound of the cell door that she awoke, eyes bleary and body stiff from a night spent on the hard floor. The fae man was nowhere in sight as the King and his attendants entered the room. The fine leather of their boots scuffed on the bare floor, the sound echoing off of the walls. The empty walls. The floor, bare save for a shining spool of thread, an aching girl and a spinning wheel. Her heart leapt. Her saviour had done his impossible work.  
The King entered, and looked upon the chamber. Looked for some long while, not bothering to meet her gaze.  
“Bring her,” was all he said. His servants complied, marching her down the winding hallways to a closed door much like the first. This room was bigger. Bigger, and stuffed nearly to the rafters with straw. She was beginning to hate the sight of straw.  
The shadows of the cell, those not eclipsed with hay, held no help. She could not call him. Doubtless, they outside would hear. And anyway, she did not even know his name. If he had stayed, perhaps...  
But he was gone, and likely she would never see him again. So she wept.

The smell of straw and stone and damp was achingly familiar as he opened his eyes. The smell of salt. The sight that greeted him not much changed, save for the size. The words that rose to his tongue tired and worn from use.  
“Maiden, why do you cry?”  
She gasped, and looked up to see... the spinner, standing there amongst the fodder. Her saviour. Here. With her.  
And again, he asked, “What do you have to give?” From her neck, she pulled a necklace of gold, affixed at the bottom to a pearl caged in silver.  
“It was my grandmother's,” was all she said. The fine chain puddled in his hand as she dropped it, her fingers brushing his outstretched ones.  
It was still warm from her skin as he fastened it around his own neck. “I accept.” And he began his work.  
She tried not to stare. Or at least, to be subtle about it. _Fascinating_. She didn't know that she had spoken aloud until he replied.  
“Not so interesting that you should deny yourself rest. I will be here most of the night.” There was much to be done, for all that he worked quickly.

The door burst open, frightening the girl awake. The King and his attendants entered, same as the day before, save for the matching expressions of expectation on their faces.  
The King looked around, very much at all the finespun thread and very much not at the tired girl he had imprisoned.  
“Bring her,” was all that he said.  
Tonight was to be the last night. Her final test. She waited until the sound of footsteps faded from the halls. Until only she remained, she in her cell with the wheel and the straw. And she wept, to be so alone, for surely the last of her luck had spent itself by now.

The smell of damp and stone and hay was becoming almost familiar to him at this point. As familiar as the salt scent of tears; as his summoner, the maiden, sobbing in the corner.  
“Don't cry; please.” The words rushed out as though pulled from him. He dashed her tears away, tipping her chin up in his cool hands. “What troubles you now? Is it the same?”  
She nodded, looking down. Away from him. He tucked her head under his chin, folding her into his arms. There they stood a while, the spinner stroking her hair with a gentle hand until her breathing quieted.  
And once more, finally, he asked, “What do you have to give?” The young woman sniffled, stepping out of his loose embrace.  
She ran a hand through her hair, unbound and tangled now after her nights on the floor. “I've given you all I had of value. What else is there?”  
A kiss, a lock of her hair, her _name;_ but he could not ask for what she had not offered. Could not suggest what she did not know to barter. There were limits. Constraints, clinging more tightly than the strings that he spun. He stayed silent.  
“I will be a rich woman come morning,” she submitted. A rich woman. Or a dead one. Either way. “Return in a year, and you will have the thing of greatest value in my life.” _Likely_ , she thought, _another piece of jewellery. Perhaps a crown._  
The fae man's voice was soft. “I accept.” And at the wheel, he sat and began to work.

It was only just growing dark, in the early hours of the night, when he broke the silence.  
“I will likely be here all night and some of the morning.” Most of the morning, if he didn't hurry. He would hurry. For her sake. “When the time comes, go to the door. Keep them out for as long as you can. Stall them.” She nodded with wide eyes, and he began again to spin.  
There was little sleep for either of them that night, the spinning and clacking and whirring a din too great to overcome with rest.  
Instead, he spun, and she watched. Watched his steady hand feeding straw from the distaff, winding it onto the wheel with a twisting movement. Watched the sweat rise on his brow. His eyes, narrowed in concentration, never left their task, though her gaze burned into his back. And it was then that she too learned the spinning of straw into gold.  
Learned, if not understood.

-

The morning sun had only just spread its soft embrace over the sky when she heard the sound of boots on the stone floors of the hallway. They both jolted awake from the noise. The Spinner spit a whispered word, and the door did not come open.  
“Open it,” the voice commanded from outside. The doorknob jerked and twisted, yet the door stuck fast. And then, when nothing else happened, _“Open it!”_  
She looked to the spinner, who hummed as he worked. He did not look toward her or the door, focused as he was. But she could feel his attention all the same.  
“Go to the door. I have only a little left.” She jumped as his voice broke the silence.  
In a whisper, he called to her again. “The work is done.” They looked then, both of them, to the bobbins filled with gleaming floss of gold. To the piles and piles besides.  
His boots, the leather soles worn buckskin soft, made no sound as he braced himself next to her. “On my word, get out of the way.” Another crash, one that made the walls shake, and then, “ _Now.”_ She threw herself out of the way. The door burst open, slamming back against the wall. Her saviour was gone.

The King looked about the room, empty, save for the piles and piles of gilded thread. And, though it did not reach his eyes, he smiled a little. She lifted her chin as his cold gaze swept over her.  
“Bring her. And have her prepared,” was all that he said. Not a word more.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is latin, meaning 'cloth of gold'
> 
> if you liked this retelling, let me know :)


End file.
